


The Two Winds and the Silver Bible

by drcalvin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantine (Minor character), M/M, Madeleine Era, Magic, Paris Era, Pre-Slash, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time now gone, there lived once a boy of great honesty and a convict with a frozen heart. Years apart, in different towns, they both met persons of hidden greatness and were gifted marvelous things, so that they might change their fates.</p><p>But time passes; honest boys grow into harsh men, while old convicts slip between the cracks and emerge reforged and renewed. And who knows what could happen when such men collide?</p><p>[Magical AU inspired by the style of folk-tales and childhood stories for Valvertfic fest]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gentleman Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deliriumoverdelusion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=deliriumoverdelusion), [AsheRhyder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Valvertgift exchange on Tumblr for the prompt: _Magic AU. One or both dealing with the supernatural._
> 
> A great many thanks to Carmarthen for outstanding beta, cheerleading and suggestions! And to Voksen for helping me brainstorm and cheering me on. Thanks also to all of lesmiseres, for allowing me to turn my schedule upside down and actually sit down and write this, and for great amusings and suggestions meanwhile ;)
> 
> And, last but definitely not least, thanks to lucrezianoin for arranging this ficfest!

In the days now past, it happened that the East Wind and the West Wind met upon the shores of the Mediterranean. Most times, they offered each other a greeting and then rushed away, intent upon their own business. However, on certain occasions they would instead set down among those mild beaches and walk together, discussing this and that – like two old friends who rarely meet are wont to do. One just such a day, they walked into the city of Toulon and looked it over. 

There was the great prison – "I have helped whip those men into better character," East would say, "by throwing salty waves against their backs." Upon which West would answer, "I have inspired kind thoughts in these fallen souls, by stroking mild warmth upon tired brows." – and the harbour, where they spent some time discussing which ships they had helped or hindered upon the seven seas.

Near the harbour they heard some boys braying and hollering in excitement. They drifted closer; for although the winds blow all over the great globe, they know that children sometimes discover the most unusual sights of all.

Alas, it was not a very unusual sight that met them. The gang of boys had found a younger and smaller child, and were amusing themselves by kicking and hitting him. West sighed sadly while East rolled his storm-coloured eyes at the spectacle.

"Come, let us continue and find more pleasant views," East said, and blew a cloud of dust towards the boys, so that their eyes might fill with sand and grit.

"Indeed, such pettiness has never entertained me," West agreed, then sent a small cloud towards the child left huddling in the road, so that he might wash away the dust and blame his tears on the sudden rainfall.

They continued on the road, circling through the city until they had seen all that was worth viewing in the city of Toulon, finishing by going up to the church tower to take in the afternoon sunlight. There, they shook hands and prepared to depart upon their own errands, when West pointed down into the town.

"Are those not the same children we saw earlier today?"

"Yes," drawled East, "and they seem to have returned to making silly noise again."

"No," West said, "listen. They are arguing, about us!"

They went down to listen closer and found that the children were indeed discussing the winds. Perhaps inspired by the many brisk gales and amusing little eddies and air-swirls that had swept through the city that afternoon, they had come to argue over which wind was the most favourable.

That the old North Wind was the strongest and most ferocious was easily determined; the two listeners were forced to agree. It took a longer discussion before it was decided that the South Wind could be softest (when she brought the spring) and also most devastating (when bringing the burning summer heat from the depths of the desert). So far, so good.

But to the annoyance of the two gentlemen, the children could not determine which wind was the most favourable of them all. Should it be the Easterly Wind, which surely blew _from_ Paradise, and as such brought the scent of eternal feast, or the Westerly Wind – which would by necessity blow _towards_ the Garden? As the discussion wore on and no agreement was reached, the entire matter threatened to break down into fisticuffs. Neither wind felt that this would give a conclusive answer.

Thus West stepped in with a suggestion: the child who came up with the cleverest explanation as to which of the winds was the better, would earn a favour from one of the two gentlemen. For, he explained, they had taken a great interest in the debate.

This offer caused the gathered children to settle down for some earnest deliberation. But, although they pondered and debated until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, they could not come up with any convincing argument. Since mothers were calling and stomachs where churning hungrily, they decided to postpone the decision until the next day and scattered.

They left behind the two amused winds, and one child even skinnier and more scuffed than the rest.

"They are all stupid," that boy said, frowning at the disappearing group. "The answer is obvious."

"Ahh," East said and preened slightly, "you believe it goes without saying that it is the East Wind that is more favourable and brings the best gifts? Wise, my boy, very wise."

"No," the boy said.

West smiled down at him. "Then you know that it is the Western Wind which best favours your kind, my child?"

"No," the boy said. "Are you stupid, too?"

At such rudeness, both winds huffed, and stormed off. The entire city of Toulon was pummeled by heavy gales and waves that night, and plenty of its citizens complained about their disturbed sleep the next day.

The town children, however, rose fresh and early to find an answer to the question of the most favourable wind.

Most of the children went to speak with the sailors and the fishermen, reasoning that men whose livelihood depended so upon fair winds, would be sure to know the answer. Some boys dared approach one of the chain-gangs from the great prison, knowing that they contained men from all over the world. Two girls trekked all the way out to the miller's, because they thought that the favourable wind would surely be the one that ground the finest flour. One last pair went to ask the magistrate of the city, though they were harshly driven away by the bailiff before they could receive a reply.

Only one boy remained in the center of the town, loitering around near the guard house. When the winds returned to the town, he was the first they found.

"You, rude boy! Where have all the other children gone?" East demanded.

"Easy, now," West said. "I'm sure the little monsieur has had time to consider better since yesterday, hasn't he?"

The boy shrugged sullenly. When they asked again, however, he did give a truthful answer.

"They won't learn anything new," he predicted. "The miller is a drunk, the sailors are gossipy old hens and can't agree on anything, and the magistrate won't have time to listen to silly children!"

"And the prisoners?" East asked, quite amused by the scorn now that it wasn't turned toward him.

At that, the child laughed in a way too old and weary for his age, and shook his head. "What do they know of being favourable, or of goodness?" he said. "They're in _jail_."

The East, curious about what a learned man might say about him, announced that he would speak to the magistrate himself . When he had left, West idled around for a while – a hard thing to do for a wind, but he managed quite convincingly – before he returned to the boy and spoke to him.

"You seem to be a clever child," he said, "though you should learn to guard your tongue when speaking to your betters, or you shan't come far in life. Now then. I notice, that your shirt and breeches have patches upon their patches and I had a little thought." West crouched down and spoke to the boy as if in confidence. (Because he was a wind, and only as visible as he wished to be, none took notice of the elegant gentleman conferring with the child of the street.) 

"How about this," he asked. "I give you a new set of fine clothes, with embroidery and pearl buttons, and no patches at all! In return, you take that smart tongue of yours and apply it to convincing the others that I – pardon, the West Wind – is the most favourable of them all?"

The boy considered the offer. "What if I can't convince them?"

"As long as you try your best, I shall still reward you."

"And what if it turns out that the East Wind is more favourable still?"

"Well..." West shrugged. "Then he should have offered you a fine gift by now, should he not?"

The boy looked hesitant, but then he glanced over West's shoulder. He frowned at whatever he saw, and shook his head. "I don't know whether any wind is better than the other. Besides, it would not be right to take bribes." With that, he excused himself and took off between the alleys.

The West Wind turned and looked at what had caught the child's eye, and saw a troop of men in naval uniforms. He nodded thoughtfully and went to find the other children to learn whether they had come to a decision.

Meanwhile, the East Wind had discovered that the magistrate was too busy to listen to tales of winds, whether they came from children or foreign gentlemen. Instead he had found an inn near the courthouse, where a group of young lawyers proclaimed themselves willing to debate any matter, as long as someone kept them supplied with wine.

The East dropped a handful of money upon the table – ducats, red Russian gold and silver stamped in far-off Brazilian mines – and at once, the entire room became crowded with lawmen, all passionately arguing the matter. He was still sitting there listening to them when the sun set and West came to find him.

"It is amazing," the East Wind said, "they have so far used logic to prove that there are no winds; that all winds are ill and ought to be arrested; that the Emperor has the right to put a wind-tax on ships with too large sails; that he should put a wind-tax on ships with small sails to encourage larger ships; that the richest wind is the one which brings the scent of gold – that would be me, at the moment – and a thousand other pointless things. But which is the most favourable of us, they can't seem to decide upon."

"That might be because lawyers are used to debating the law as it is written down, not to engage in problems for which there is no previous ruling to follow," West suggested. Since the children had been forced to go to bed already, he too sat down to hear to the discussion. By now, it had been well-primed with wine and liquor and although the arguments became increasingly passionate, they began to unravel in coherency.

Bending close to his compatriot to be heard over the growing din, West reported what he had learned during the day. "The miller didn't care which wind he got as long as it blew steady. The sailors and fishers all found it depended upon where they were going... though they agreed that a fair wind was most important, and tipped their hats nicely to me; I liked that."

"And the prisoners?"

"Ah, their concerns were even more focused. Any wind which blew away from the dogs, if they chanced to escape, was favourable to them. Otherwise, they considered us equally fair – all but the hot auster from the desert, which brings them no relief when the sweat stings their back."

“Plodding ignorants,” East sneered.

At this point, one lawyer introduced a chair to the proceedings, The two winds made a swift escape, each promising to return one last time to try and find an answer. 

The next morning, the East Wind made sure to come early to Toulon. He found the skinny boy yawning on the porch of the poorhouse and took care to approach him in silence.

"Good morning," he said when he stood just behind him; the boy turned with a startled sound and East smiled down at him. "A little bird whispered to me of your even-handed treatment of my colleague yesterday. It takes a disciplined young man to resist such an offer and do the right thing."

"I try my best," the boy said.  He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes before he began walking towards the centre of the town. "What do you want, then?"

"Why, merely to express my admiration! And perhaps offer you a little something..." Here, East smiled winningly and held out his fine cane: a richly carved ivory handle atop exotic woods, mother-of-pearl swirling down the length of the cane in the finest patterns imaginable. "I believe you are a young man of character and insight. Thus, I offer you this fine walking cane, if you but decide to argue for one of the winds."

"And if you gave me your cane, and I named the West Wind?"

The East Wind shrugged and laughed so that the leaves upon the trees danced. "Then you would have a fine cane, would you not? And I would know your true, ungrateful character – and I would remember it well."

"Then I think it's a good thing that I don't have any need for such a silly stick," the boy said. And before the East Wind had time to respond to his cheek, he ran off at the beckoning of a soldier who needed to send a message.

"Stubborn brat," East said. Though his smile remained wide, the trees shivered and shook behind him, and the thatched roofs groaned in sympathy.

"Temper, temper," West reminded him as he lightly stepped down onto the street. "We are here to find out who is the most favourable of us, remember?"

"My patience is running out," East said, but brought his wind under control.

West agreed with that. The winds decided that if there was no answer until this sunset, they would simply leave the matter unresolved – though it irked them both, for while they were different in temperament, they were equals in pride.

The day wore on and the children gathered in the square. They had asked their mothers, they had bothered the soldiers and the monks, some even asking the old priest and the fortune teller near the wharf – but to no avail. No man nor woman could give a convincing answer to whether the East Wind or the West Wind was the most favourable in all circumstances.

Finally, as the dinner hour crept closer, the oldest of the boys admitted defeat. He did manage a pretty apology and spoke at length about the greatness of the winds, so both the gentlemen rewarded him and the other children with some foreign coins for their troubles.

When all but the rude boy had dispersed, the East Wind looked up at him. He had been observing them in silence from a safe spot on the top of a wall, and now climbed down and gave them a reserved nod.

"Well?" East asked. "Have you any final insults, you cheeky little bugger? And watch your tongue, or you'll have to see the world through a dust cloud from now."

"I am merely amazed that you are both still here," the boy said. "Have you nothing better to do, than idle around and play tricks on children? No wonder it was easy even for the likes of us to decide that the North Wind and South Wind are greater than you!"

"You are being most uncouth!" West said sternly.

"You watch yourself, boy," East said, bristling at the insult.

"Why?" They boy crossed his arms and frowned down on them. "You have had all these children running around to appease you instead of doing their chores. You've made them bother honest men – the magistrate and the priest, even! – and you led the lawyers to drink even worse than usual. Then you both tried to bribe me, and now, you threaten. If you ask me, that proves neither of you is very fortunate or fair, even if it was possible for us to decide such a thing."

"In what way have you come to the conclusion, that you cannot decide such a thing?"

"Can you?" the child asked. "Be judged? If you tore off a roof, could the courts sentence you to pay damages? If the British fleet set sail against us once more, could the Emperor order you to blow them back and smash them upon their own shores?"

"Of course not!" East protested. "We are the _Winds_ you silly child! Nobody but the Lord God himself can direct our movements or our deeds!"

The boy nodded. "Exactly. And if you are outside the law of men, then how are we supposed to decide whether or not one of you is better than the other? If it rains on a farmer when he's just put seed in the ground, he praises the rain. But if it comes when his grain is tall and drying, he'll curse it."

"And does the rain listen to him, or care? No, of course not," the West Wind mumbled, approval in his voice.

"If you already know that, then you should know what makes anyone the most fair one in the eyes of the Lord. To do your work, faithfully; to stay honest and dutiful at all times."

The East Wind rolled his eyes, but the West Wind nudged him with his elbow, and he remained silent.

"That's how it is for us, anyway," the boy said and shrugged. "I'd think that even a fine pair of gentlemen such as yourself would have to follow these laws."

At that, even the East Wind had to bow his head, and agree that he too was bound by the Laws of Heaven. Neither he nor the West Wind were much pleased by this paltry reward for their search, but they were also ashamed to admit that the boy had spoken true.

"It would do you good not to speak of this matter with anyone," the West Wind said, after he had conferred with the East. "Boys who speak to the wind rarely become popular, especially if they're not sailors!"

"Hah! I'm not popular as it is. But no," the boy said, and looked towards the Navy barracks, "I won't tell."

The East Wind followed his gaze, then gave a reluctant grunt and pulled out a cane. “Here, then, you brat. A gift.” 

This was not the fine walking stick he had shown off earlier, but a solid wooden thing shod with iron. It was light like a rattan cane when carried, yet when the boy smacked it against his hand, he felt the weight of lead in it.

"Now then," the East Wind said, "since you are so bothered by injustice, and surely can't deserve the thrashing those boys give you every day  – oh, don't glare so, you think I do not see it? – this stick will always defend you from unjust violence. Just point it at the one who has done ill and yell out 'stick, beat' and you shall be defended. Beware, however, that if you ever aim this weapon at an innocent, you will be the one to earn the beating."

"Thank you," the boy said and bowed.

The West Wind cleared his throat. "I see you aren't wearing a proper coat, my boy, even today when both West and East blow through the town. Do you own one at all?" The boy shook his head, a mulish look on his head.

"I can't turn up in that ridiculous frilly thing you showed me the other day." He shook the cane. "Not even this would be enough to defend me!"

"No, I suppose those you live with lack such sophisticated taste." With a wink, the West Wind pulled out a simple coat of darkest grey and held up to measure it against the boy's shoulders. "This coat is made from Old North's beard and Lady South's hair; the thread was spun on East's spinning wheel and I have sewn it myself. It may not look like much, but it will keep you warm in winter and let you feel any breeze when the heat is strong. And as long as you remain as even-handed as today, you will not be plagued by any wind again."

"Thank you," the boy said and bowed.

The gentlemen nodded back and then, in a rush of air, they were gone as if they had never stood before him. They left behind a boy who stood looking up at the empty sky and the wind playing among the clouds until the stars came out and greeted him.

As he walked back to the poorhouse, the cane warmed in his hand and the coat settled comfortably on his back. He felt quite respectable indeed, even if his stomach was still empty and his shirt more patches than whole fabric. As long as he closed the coat, though, nobody would see that. Perhaps now, he thought, they would let him wait inside the office for messages to carry. There was always work to do for clever boys – but first they needed to gain entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruberoidz on Tumblr [created amazing fanart](http://ruberoidz.tumblr.com/post/53829755050/so-its-for-drcalvins-the-two-winds-and-the) for this chapter!


	2. The Bishop's Book

In the hills of Digne, there lived a Bishop known far and wide for his kindness and generosity. The secret that was kept about him among the poor parishioners was not only that he could speak in images that captivated the mind and lit a candle in the soul – but that on occasion the Bishop's prayers would multiply loaves, or hold off a storm until the harvest was brought in.

His miracles were not grand and garish, nor were they regular or announced... but for the children who had walked home with their first full meal in an age, the voice that could pray water into rich porridge was worth more than gold and precious pearls.

Monseigneur Bienvenue they called him, and without anyone needing to warn them, all the poor souls of the valleys around Digne knew to keep their silence. For a Bishop who can pray a single log into burning an entire month can surely also make the holy statues bleed tears and snare the souls of a richer congregation – and this was a tax they were not willing to pay to Paris.

So the Bishop remained and although all spoke long and warm about his kind heart, his free hand towards the poor and his fine voice when giving sermons, none who had not themselves starved and frozen in the Alpine night knew he had any talents beyond those. Had they known, greedy men would have wished to take his secrets – but wise men would recognize that it was not the magic of his words which made him a treasure to keep, but the gentle heart which kept it speaking such sweet things.

When a traveler knocked on the Bishop's door, he would say 'Welcome!' and let anyone inside; be they man or woman, speaking beast or wildling spirit alike. And so it happened that a man with a yellow passport came to the town. He was denied sustenance and harbour from the storm until one gentle soul sent him to the Bishop's door. 

Abused, this prisoner had long been; chilled by the autumn rains pouring upon him for days; hungry, in body and in soul. Though given food and drink and warmth, bitterness filled him from within so that the bread tasted like gravel and the soup went down like sea-water in his throat. When night fell the prisoner woke. He went through the house like the wraith he had come to resemble. Without hesitation, he took the twelve pieces of silver cutlery from the cupboard and then, glancing around to make sure that none had awoken, grabbed the two slim candlesticks that stood on the shelf. 

He hurriedly left the house and the night wind swept colder than ever around him.

In the morning, the good Bishop was awoken by his housekeeper, crying and wailing over the stolen silver. He comforted her, spoke the trees into providing the household with six new pieces of wooden cutlery – which they made easily, for the Bishop was kind to them with water in the driest months and care for their storm-damaged branches in the autumn – and then went back to his gardening. 

The police came to his house that afternoon. They had with them that wretched prisoner, with fresh bruises on his face. The fierce man of the evening before was nowhere to be seen; beneath the wet mop of filthy hair his face was caught in a look of dumb despair and hopelessness.

"This main claims you have given him your silver!" the town Inspector told him, and threw the prisoner at the Bishop's feet. "Tell us, monseigneur, that he is a liar and we shall haul him out of your sight at once."

"He speaks the truth," the Bishop said and gestured to his sister. "My dear, would you be so kind as to bring me the final gift I had promised him?" He turned back to the stunned policemen and gave them his most benevolent smile. "Do forgive the confusion, Inspector, this situation is partly my fault. I knew our guest was in a hurry this morning, yet I dawdled in my bed instead of rising early. It is good that you brought him back or he’d have left without the finest piece of them all." 

The Bishop's sister, a woman equal to her brother in kindness and in grace, returned. She held in her hand the large silver Bible which was all that remained of the family fortune after the revolution. Upon seeing it, the housekeeper could not help crossing herself.

"You may release this man," the Bishop said. He took the book and weighed it slowly in his hand; his smile at this action as purely satisfied as a accomplished child’s. As soon as the cuffs fell from the prisoner's wrists, he knelt down by the man and pressed the book into his hands. "Take this, my brother, and use it well." The prisoner stared at him in incomprehension.

The Bishop rose and bid the policemen farewell. When he thanked them for their dedication to duty, his tone was so gently determined that they tipped their hats to him and were out the door before they had reflected properly upon the events. 

Turning back to the confused man still kneeling in his parlour, the Bishop laid a hand upon his brow, and waited until the prisoner's eyes rose to meet his. 

"Hear me on this this, my brother, and hear me well... With this book, I buy your soul for good. In every word you speak from it, every deed you do, you will further pawn your soul to the Almighty."

The prisoner, upon leaving, knew nothing and understood less. He walked for hours, clutching the book in his fingers until he finally collapsed in exhaustion at the side of the road. 

How had he been saved? How was he not in this moment heading back to the chains and the beatings, the sweat and the pain? He stared at the world; it was cold and stared hungrily back at him. His eyes could not bear the sight, and he lowered his gaze until he saw only the fine silver cover of the Bible.

It was heavy, though perhaps not heavy enough for a tome of that size. It fit perfectly in his work-worn hands; such rough hands they were, that could break rocks and pull large loads. The cover was hammered silver, with not a stain. There were clumsy figures on it, so vaguely etched that one could barely see them. Or perhaps they were not clumsy, but merely so ancient that they had been worn away by a hundred hands? Impossible to tell. The words _Holy Bible_ could be read upon the cover and the back (the prisoner could read, somewhat, although his overwrought mind could barely grasp even those simple words) and it was while he was turning the book in his hands that it fell open upon a page.

His eyes were drawn to a single line. Even though his mind was a-whirl and the letters crawled and twisted before him, one line stood out and he found his mouth speaking the words without interference from his will. 

"For winter is now past, the rain is over and gone.”

As the final word was spoken, the sun broke through the clouds and showered him with warmth. He looked up, eyes wide and awed, and dared then turn a page, and speak a second line from the holy book.

Before him grew a grass; it swelled into a heavy ax, bending from the weight, and by the time it touch the ground the prisoner was looking at a steaming bun.

He took it up and turned it in his hand, and with the slow movements of a sleepwalker, he at long last dared to bite the bread. It was warm, as if it had just been baked. It tasted of home, of comfort and of trust; things he had forgotten, if he had ever truly known them.

The prisoner could not eat another bite, his face crumbling and his body bending, slowly wracked by sobs. For the winter of his imprisonment had given place to the spring of freedom, and his tears watered the book without smearing one single letter. 

So wept this man, until he could weep no more.

When the sun set that evening, it was reported that the prisoner who had been seen the day before, was praying before the Bishop's door.

The next morning, he was forth. 

The gentle Bishop continued to speak his sermons and his words gave continual comfort and faith to his flock but no longer made one loaf last to feed an entire church hall. Though the farmers would still ask him to pray for rain, he could no longer part the heavens with one gentle phrase. Fortunately, the Bishop had saved almost all the money his diocese was granted, despite keeping the churches and hospices in his domain in excellent repair. With gold now, instead of words, he continued to ensure that the good flour and fat cheeses came to those most in need of it. If he missed sometimes the ability to make the a grayish, rainy day break up for a moment to allow a cheerful spot of sun, he complained not, and remarked only that his garden would now be well watered.

And yet – in the woods and gardens of Digne, the trees greeted him with a stirring in their leaves. If he but asked, they spared him their dry branches for firewood and bend down to hand him their fruits, for trees are old and trees are wise, and they remember almost as long as mountains, but with far more generosity in their cores. 

As for the prisoner? We know that he left the town of Digne after that night, and he was not seen to return ever again. 

A travelling tinker went to the Bishop’s house when he passed Digne a few days later, and asked him carefully, if he might miss his famous silver Bible. For, he told the gently smiling Bishop, he had seen a man carrying a very large silver book, which reminded him at once of the good Bishop.

He was blessed, and thanked, but never quite given a clear reply. Though when he told the story at the inn, the townspeople said it was impossible that he had seen the wretched prisoner. The man the tinker had seen of had rough clothes and wooden clogs, but a finely combed head of hair and a well-cut beard. 

A few days later, another tale arrived with a traveler passing through the town of Digne. In this tale, a man in modest but clean clothing and a farmer's hat had sat in the taproom and studied a large silver book the entire evening; he had taken note, for the size of the book was remarkable and when he had enquired about it, the traveler had grown very nervous indeed. 

During the next month, several stories came along the road. They all told of a country gentleman with the most unhappy countenance, who hurried through the little villages. In the first, he was said to ride a clumsy wagon harnessed to gray ox; in the second he was in a brilliant carriage behind a proud stallion. After that, however, the stories would converge: Many recalled the awkward man in his simple, sturdy clothes, sitting in a little buggy behind a whitish pony that trotted merrily along the road while he read his silver book as if his life depended upon it. Though whether it was a grand Bible, or a slim volume of psalms, or a well-sized prayer book, the stories could never quite agree.

As the miles grew longer, the stories sank away and the long road swallowed the traveler. And if in the town of Montreuil, they tell another story – of a man who arrived on a late night, a silver book in his pocket and a gray pony at his side, and who prayed the flames apart and saved two little children – well, there are a great many books in the world and who is to say that two of them do not have silver covers?


	3. The Mayor and the Inspector

Inspector Javert paced the office of the mayor. He was not by nature a restless man, and his patience had been the downfall of many a villain. However, he was also not accustomed to wait in this sort of ignorance, and so he paced.

In his long, storm-dark coat and black hat, he cut an imposing figure and he looked strangely out of place here. The office to which Javert had been shown was light, with large windows covering two walls. One overlooked the factory floor and the other, which seemed to have been added later, faced the south and let in a great deal of the afternoon sun. Beneath this window stood two barrels filled with earth, and from them a tangle of plants climbed up along a construction of sticks and string. Javert did not recognize the plants, but as he walked over to the trellis, he noticed that pods were ripening on it; presumably some type of legume. What intrigued him even more were the unevenly shaped beads, some of jet and some of a silvery metal, that hung on each piece of string.

"They are mostly failed experiments from the factory," a voice said from behind him, "and some are pure mistakes. I do not wish to throw them away, for each set reminds me that I need to keep improving for this town to continue to thrive."

Only as the voice fell silent did the Inspector turn, and he graced the Mayor – the proper gentleman in the dark green coat could surely be no other – with one of his rare smiles before bowing. "It is an admirable philosophy, Monsieur le maire, and I have heard from my superiors that you follow it most punctually. Please, know me as Javert. I am your new Inspector of Police, here to serve you and the law."

He raised his eyes and, still smiling, he reached inside his coat to take out his letter of introduction. The movement froze when he beheld the Mayor's face.

"Monsieur le maire?"

The man was staring at him with wide eyes. Upon hearing Javert's voice his eyes flicked up, a nervous movement, before they turned down to his hand again. Javert’s fist clenched involuntarily at this intense stare. Only as his gloves crinkled, did he become aware of the weight grown so familiar in his hand that he usually didn't even recall carrying it.

"Ah..." He nodded at the sudden realization, thinking of the discussion he'd been forced to have with his superiors in Paris regarding this tool. "I know this is not the regulation policeman’s cane," he began, taking the mayor's sharp exhale as an acknowledgement that he had guessed correctly. "I have a special dispensation to carry it; never fear, it is all explained in this." Javert reached inside his coat again, inclined his head, and held out the letter to the mayor. "You do not need to worry that it is one of those new-fangled fire-sticks that might set your town ablaze. This cane will hurt no innocent man, Monsieur."

"I know," the mayor said, and then his voice fell to a whisper so that Javert could not be quite certain what followed. 

“Monsieur?”

The mayor cleared his throat and smiled at him. "That – Yes, good, that pleases me to hear." He accepted the letter and unfolded it, leafing through the pages quickly. "Pardon, Inspector, I did not mean to cast aspersions at your character," he said. "It is merely... private tools and guns, ah, one hears such stories."

"I agree fully," Javert said, his voice warming. "Trust me, Monsieur le maire, I do not allow any man under my command to use anything but the provided proper equipment. Not unless the matter has been fully investigated and approved by the proper authorities."

They spoke a little more after that, the mayor asking for some news from Paris and gifting him with a rosary from the factory. Once Javert had been dismissed, he walked back to the station with unhurried strides.

Monsieur Madeleine had made a favourable impression on him. Observant, inventive, a man to whom law and right clearly mattered... A man who could turn a town around; the reports had not been exaggerated. 

Tonight was his first proper patrol and Javert planned to do a fine job of it; for his own pride and the order of the town, but to make a good impression upon the mayor as well.

* * *

That night, Jean Valjean dreamed for the first time in many years.

Mayor Madeleine dreamed vividly most nights. He rested easily while his mind wandered through empty gardens and endless shadowy libraries; he dreamed of the events of the day all jumbled up and confused. He forget those dreams moments after waking. Some nights, he tossed and turned, as the sensation of beaded strings twined tighter and tighter around him, until he could not move nor spoke for fear of tearing one thread and bringing the entire edifice down. Once or twice a month, not more often but not more rarely either, he dreamed of murky, nightmarish things. On such nights he might look upon the starlit heavens, drenched in silver rain until his empty eyesockets became pools of mercury, and with these eyes Madeleine stared upon the frightful world while his mouth moved soundlessly, searching for words of deliverance – unable to voice any. 

Finally, he’d wake and fumble for the little Bible that he kept at his person at all times, and he would press it to his trembling lips to the silvery cover and read from it .So he would remain, awake until the dawn came to drive the shadows away.

But tonight, the dreams were Valjean's and they were darker still.

They began with hunger and with fear, and a long, long hunt over a craggy mountain; sharp rocks cut his feet and whenever he fell, the dry grass would tangle in his long beard and try and pull him down so that it might drink his blood. He knew without looking back that he was pursued. The mountain offered no cover. The wind howled in his ears. He kept running and saw no end, until he stepped into a yawning chasm and his scream was lost in the soulless echoes.

Valjean landed in something more than a dream, but not yet the waking world. Instead he returned in his memories to Toulon and to the prison.

"He has his scent," the senior guard said as his dog snarled and bucked at its leash. "Must be close. Go round, but carefully."

"Yes, sir."

He cowered beneath a fallen tree as he heard those voices, the snarl of that dog as it broke open a hill already undermined by badgers. Valjean pressed his body beneath the trunk, tried to hide like a frightened rabbit in its hole.

The dog approached from the right, not yet barking but growing more and more excited with each step. From the other side, the rustling of dry branches revealed the guard coming closer.

He was trapped. Though he knew from bitter experience that it was no good to resist arrest, and had even managed to avoid it the last time he'd slipped their net for a while, the thought of returning to prison filled his mouth with bitter gall and made his limbs shake wildly. He had nowhere to run – he knew he must not fight.

He could not go back to prison.

Valjean chose, with the same same instinct possessed by the small creatures whose ruined home he had tried to find shelter in, to avoid the sharp-toothed dog. When he burst from his hiding place, a wild cry escaped his lips, and his strong legs thrust him towards the lone guard approaching from the left.

Both guards cried out as well, in alarm and warning. He thought to see the flash of metal. The dog howled behind him, tearing eagerly at its leash.

There was a shape before him; the blue of a guard's uniform filled his field of sight. Valjean pushed the man away, hollering wordlessly, and kept running. With endurance and strength born of pure terror, he ran, keeping ahead of dog and guards, running towards that shimmering illusion of freedom that he knew, even in that moment, was patently false.

"Stick! Beat!"

The words meant nothing to him then. Valjean ran and thought only of the dog, fearing its hot breath and tearing teeth. Suddenly, it was as if he was whipped over the back with a heavy branch flung around by a storm. He stumbled and gasped for air. A further stroke landed over his calves, burning like the wind-loosened line that had caught him when he'd worked on unloading a ship with supplies for the prison. Valjean stumbled – he tried to crawl away, but the familiar weight of a cudgel began raining pain upon his back. He instinctually tried to shield his head. The strokes were brutal, painful, yet they did not hit his vital spots; but they would not end. Not even when he fell flat upon the ground. 

A tireless gale of pain swept over him, and he barely noticed when the dog appeared before him, until it growled and nipped at his hands. The guards' boots he could glimpse on either side around him. The beating still did not end. He tried to make himself small beneath the pain, he wished to disappear into the ground, and the beating continued and continued; pain upon his shoulders, legs, buttocks, arms – pain swallowing him until he howled like a dying animal until finally a hand caught the staff above him and no more pain fell on that poor beast Valjean, who had only tried to run, like all dumb beasts are compelled to do when captured in a grinding, breaking trap.

He whimpered and he moaned, Valjean, and even through the fearful aches he knew one truth, which only filled him with more terror: nothing had been broken, no limbs twisted into uselessness or badly sprained. The double chain and endless days of toil would soon be upon him again; beneath that knowledge he writhed and cried in wordless misery. And yet Valjean’s mind noted the cold words spoken above him, and hoarded them in secrecy for a decade and more, until they were release upon his hapless sleeping soul.

The senior guard collared the dog again, saying: "Impressive piece, that! You ought to use it more often, would save us all a –"

"This is no toy," an indifferent voice replied. "I wasn't given a strong arm to stand and watch soulless things do my work for me."

"Hmpf. I guess... but still, damned practical stick you've got there, Javert. Shouldn't let it go to waste."

At those words, the sleeper tore himself out of the dream, flung himself from the bed and fumbled for the chamber-pot, gagging and retching in renewed terror as his mind finally, without doubt, placed the newly arrived Inspector of Police in his old role.

Monsieur Madeleine rose that morning with bags beneath his eyes, his manner unusually brusque. But the terrors of that night were fully Jean Valjean's and not even the Bishop's book could drive them away.

* * *

It had never been easy for Javert to make friends. Among the other guards, he had been considered something of an aberration. Too fond of the rules, too stiff-necked and boring. They hadn't been unfriendly, he wouldn't claim that; merely disinterested in him, and he had repaid them with the same coin. He had fared better in Paris. There were men of all kinds in that city, and he had met both officers and civilians with temperament closer to his own – though none, it must be said, with whom he had grown close enough that they would bother to exchange letters now that he had been transferred.

For the first time in his life, Javert felt the lack of his conversational skills. Though he knew perfectly well that Monsieur Madeleine was far above his station for anything like friendship to form, he found that he wished to impress him – not only because of the mayor’s personal merits, impressive as they were, but also because the quality of the men staffing the small force in Montreuil. 

Javert was not well-traveled, but his strict ways had made him a popular choice to send out from Paris when the local constabulary was misbehaving. Compared to what he had seen then, compared even to some of the nominally well-run towns he had passed through on the way from Toulon to Paris, he could find only praise to heap upon Montreuil-sur-Mer. The men were often instructed (nagged, some complained) towards fairness by the mayor. He had paid, out of his own pocket, for a small legal library to be installed at the station. The foreman at the factory had strongly hinted to Javert that, if he wished for more educational material to be acquired, he need only ask and the mayor would provide. That would not be necessary at this point, Javert felt, though he made sure to study the books they had. He also drew the schedule so as to allot his fellow inspectors and the soldiers who assisted them about one hour every week to catch up on their paperwork – and if they had time left over, they were most severely advised to make use of Monsieur Madeleine's generous donation.

And the men did it. They did not understand all; honestly, neither did Javert. But they tried their best. It was with a great deal of pride that he reported this to the mayor, who smiled at him, ducked his eyes away, and rummaged among his papers.

Monsieur Madeleine was generally a reticent person, Javert learned through town gossip. He was easy with his coin, easier yet with his gentle smiles, but he kept to himself when he was not working.

He could not understand it because the mayor was a wealthy, well-liked man. That he had no wife and mingled so little with the others of his class made no sense. It was none of Javert’s business, however, and he easily pushed the issue from his mind – until he learned of the company the mayor did keep. The beggars in the night, the sick and ailing whom he would visit in the hospital he’d paid for out of his own pocket, the petty thieves and drunken louts whom he would try to turn to a better road through charity and preaching... This was not the mayor's duty. This was not appropriate for a man of his class– worse, it was unsafe for both him and, by extension, the entire well-ordered town.

Montreuil was not a large town and did not suffer overmuch from crime. The men assisting him were competent. There were details and rumours about Madeleine’s past that woke his curiosity. When Javert thus found himself with some spare time... well, it would be a shame to see such a fine magistrate brought down by the ungrateful greed of the lower classes. What if the mayor came to harm from his continuing association with the wrong sort; better then, that someone keep an eye on the situation.

* * *

Monsieur Madeleine approved of plants. The one concession to luxury he allowed himself was a lavish garden, which grew as if tended by angels. He would constantly give cuttings and seed away to others and in the factory, large pots of greenery were found in every corner reached by the sun.

"Good evening, Monsieur le maire!" the children would cry when he passed them.

"Good evening," he would reply and offer them some spare change. If he had time, and the weather was fair, he would sit down and speak to them, telling them little stories and showing them his new cultivations.

"Do you have a flower with you again?" Anne asked, trying to peek into the mayor's bag.

"No, it's too heavy, look at the bag!" Jean protested. "Do you have a pumpkin in there?"

"Is it for the convent? Or the factory garden?" Pierre asked.

"Neither, my friends, though those are all good guesses." With the silent laugh he spared solely for the children, Monsieur Madeleine brought up the pot and showed them what grew inside. It was a small sapling, barely more than a stick with a tuft of pale green leaves. It could not even with the best of intentions be called a tree yet, and the children looked at it with pitying eyes. "This is a young peach tree, my friends. In time it will give lovely, sweet peaches. I thought it would be a nice gift to the du Lac family to celebrate their first daughter."

"The peaches are good?" little Marianne inquired.

Anne pulled her hair. "Of course it's good! It's from M'sieur le maire!"

"Well..." Raising his finger warningly to his mouth, Madeleine looked first left, then right. Nobody could be seen on the street.

The children all fell silent and sat down at his feat, eager and expectant. With one last look around, Madeleine put down the pot with the sapling, took out a peach pit from his pocket and held it in his right hand. From his other pocket, he took out a small book with silver covers, and the children jostled each other in excitement. He stroked a thumb over the pages and let them fall open in his hand, then read the words nearest his finger.

"And the Lord God brought forth of the ground all manner of trees, fair to behold, and pleasant to eat of," Monsieur Madeleine read; in his hand, the pit cracked open and green shoots began to unfurl. He kept reading while four of the shoots grew larger, their tips bulging out until they burst into four small, but perfectly formed, peaches. They were white and pink, no larger in circumference than a man's thumbnail, but their scent was so sweet that the children gave little gasps of delight.

"Here you are," Monsieur Madeleine said, and carefully distributed the fruit among his enraptured audience. In his hand, the remains of the peach pit withered away, and he carefully brushed the dust into the pot of the sapling tree. He waited until the children had devoured their little treasures, then asked: "Do you think this fruit will please the newest du Lac, come a few years?"

"Oh yes, Monsieur!" Pierre said, licking his fingers to get at the last sweetness. "It's perfect."

"We'll make sure they water it," Anne offered and little Marianne nodded beside her.

"Thank you," he replied with a smile so open and so wide, that the sight of it would have stunned the adult inhabitants of Montreuil-sur-Mer. "Now that we are refreshed, my dear fellows, what do you say to us visiting the Du Lac household and deliver this little sapling?"

The children cheered. The mayor lifted the youngest girl upon his strong shoulder, hefted the knapsack with the pot onto his other, and led the way with the other three children dancing around him, laughing and talking all at once.

In the alley behind them, as hard to see against the weathered grey wall as a cloud against the night sky, stood the Inspector with crossed arms, watching them.

His eyes lingered a while on the empty bench, until finally, when the last childish laugh had died away, he unfolded from his secluded spot and walked up to it.

There were four tiny peach pits on the ground, smaller than dried peas. Yet they seemed to shimmer with something. Javert rolled them carefully in his gloved hands.

"Curious," he mumbled, "how very curious indeed."

* * *

If you walked along the old docks of Montreuil-sur-Mer, you would soon find the houses of ill repute, where cheap gin and cheaper lives were on offer every night. There, where misery was painted over with rouge and tears washed away with burning spirits, among the razzle-dazzle of gamblers and whores, hid also the illegal suppliers of more arcane sorts. 

You wished to walk the land of dreams even deeper than the opium allowed? Ask the painted man with sweet breath and sunrises in his eyes, and he will sell you the dust of faery land – into Morpheus’ kingdom you’ll walk; but beware, for there was never an offer open for the map back.

If your neighbour had done you ill there was a woman, hidden beneath a hundred shawls, who’d sell you misfortunes and ill-wills for only three drops of your fresh blood; and if you found after a week that the only misfortune that came to your street was creeping fear for your immortal soul? Ah, you ought to have asked for more details before the deal was done; once she held your lifeblood in her hand, the shawls shielded her from your eyes, no matter how close you passed.

There lounged the pretty boy with crimson lips and corpse-pale cheeks, willing to indulge any depravity for just one, short kiss... You’d pay him for his work, and he’d spread his lips, he’d bend over, he’d kiss your boots and writhe so sweelty beneath your whip... but you’d return, again and again, while his face grew flushed and satisfied and the orders you gave became pleas for just one more touch... One last, please, Master, just one kiss...

And yet, when the Inspector walked through the night and the cold wind rushed before him, his hard eyes would search first for the mortal men: those who traded in plain misery and crime, those who stole and murdered for a handful of coins. They, he would tell the gendarmes, were the true sinners, for the monsters of the night were unnatural and lost, but had they ever had a choice? No, indeed. Only man and man alone was given grace to squander, and so the police should arrest those wretches first. Leave the faery-women and demon-born to the men of Scripture, the Inspector said, and look for the criminal kind. When humanity’s sins are cleared away, those born of filth cannot stand the light and will slink away to better hunting grounds.

His men followed orders, and the slow battle for Montreuil’s soul changed shape. Instead of chasing shadows, the policemen scattered the beggars and and handcuffed the cut-purses. They jailed the fallen women who’d kept their too-old children in the brothel, instead of sending them to the poorhouse. They arrested the pawnbrokers for accepting stolen goods, confiscating the entire stock until there was time to sort it all out.

It had an effect on the waterfront: none could say anything else. 

The pale children coated in spider-webs spat at the Inspector’s feet before they drifted out of town. Watching them go, uselessly calling them back, did the poorest of the poor, who had no other source of cheap cloth to cover themselves or swaddle their babes. 

The shack of the old hag who kept the company of birds was, or so the whispers claimed, carried out of town on a hundred molting wings and the women wrung their hands at her departure for old Mother Goose had boiled the most trustworthy abortifacients near and far.

“You do not think you are being somewhat too harsh, Inspector?” the mayor asked when he read the reports. “There is a danger in having the other folk so close by, but...” He lifted a charm made of feathers and golden hair, presented as part of the evidence. Impermissible possession of crafted materials, as it was called, now that witchery was no longer a part of the legal vocabulary. 

“The law is the law,” the Inspector said. “We arrest only humans, all subjects of the King. They know the laws, they know where to find licensed practitioners.”

“And do they know where to find gold to pay for that sort of help?”

“How is that a matter for the police to worry about?”

The the mayor would sigh and put his stamp on most of the arrest warrants, only setting aside for ‘further consideration’ those where a little child risked being left without their caregiver. 

Miraculously, within a day or two, the kind spirits would have left sufficient gold (true, yellow gold, that remained gleaming and rich sunrise after sunrise) for all debts and fines incurred. Those reports, of matters settled and fines paid, the mayor would happily stamp. And if his Inspector’s brows hung heavy like stormy clouds when he came to deliver them? Well, that was not a matter for the magistrate to worry about.

* * *

Winter came to Montreuil, drawing frost upon the windows and inviting the rattling cough to many poor homes. Monsieur Madeleine and his gifts of miraculously fresh fruits were welcome in all the cottages and apartments. Though the children froze too much to follow him for long, they would run out and wave at him whenever he passed their houses.

Criminals laid low. The housebreakers plotted and planned for the spring, while the pickpockets tried to stretch their meager savings until the worst chill broke.

The soldiers complained about their watches and spent as much time possibly clustered around the fire, preferably a bowl of hot broth or rum in hand.

Only two men made free use of the streets this month. One was Inspector Javert, whose one concession to the cold was to flip up the collar of his cloud-gray coat and pull his hat further down on his head. Though the wind howled loud around him, it did not disturb his whiskers, nor did it once sweep the hat off his head.

The other man was the mayor, who walked through the sleet and wind with his green greatcoat flapping around his legs and hat tied in place with a ludicrous yellow band, the threads already fraying. Because he had received it from a grateful widow, however, the mayor would insist that it kept his hat in place better than any other tie he had tried. If anyone mentioned his red nose and frost-pinched cheeks, he merely smiled at them in his usual shy way. Sometimes, he might recite a small piece of scripture, and claim that the good Lord kept him just warm enough, and the curious would have to satisfy themselves with that.

At least his boots were fine and sturdy: a necessity for Monsieur Madeleine, who could be found climbing up many rickety stairs and snooping around icy back-alleys this cold winter. But even the best boots cannot keep you on your feet when the entire structure collapses beneath you. 

That very thing happened late one evening when the mayor was leaving a ramshackle home through the second-floor window. The small roof above the porch creaked and shuddered beneath his weight as soon as he stepped out on it. When he tried to grab hold of the windowsill again, he put down his foot down too hard, and crashed through the roof. If not for a quick word of power, he might very well have broken several bones, and the crash of his landing would definitely have woken everyone on the street.

With the whisper of magic turning the planks beneath him into leafy, flexible young branches, enough of the impact was absorbed that Madeleine merely lost his breath and lay half-stunned for a few moments, staring at the hole in the roof above him. He could see a scattering of stars on the sky, and had time to consider the supplemental amount of gold he would need to deliver to the poor family, so that they might repair what his clumsiness had wrought. Then, without warning, a hand like a vise clamped around his arm, and a voice straight out of his nightmares snarled at him.

"Caught in the act, you filthy lout!" 

Madeleine's heart turned to lead, while all the clever phrases and powerful words he'd learned clogged up his throat, useless and suffocating.

"You thought there'd be no police about tonight?" 

He was wrenched onto his belly, a heavy foot pressing him against the branches and cold metal closing around his wrist. The yellow glare of Javert's lantern danced above him and he instinctively curled up biting his lip to keep silent – _silent, keep silent, never let them know your pain_.

"Stop struggling. You'd better – Monsieur le maire!"

Javert's grip loosened suddenly, dropping Madeleine back to the ground. The impact jarred him and a huff of pain escaped. Then the hands were on his back again, Javert helping him sit up, far more careful now.

"Monsieur Madeleine... What is going on here?" Javert's voice was restrained, the previous anger leashed tight, and the man – the mayor, Valjean or Madeleine, whomever he was in that moment – clung to the hint of respect he heard in those words.

"An act of charity faltering on rotten wood," he managed to quip, hoping that any tremble in his voice Javert would attribute to the fall. Madeleine did not need to fake a sharp intake of breath when the inspector’s questioning hand passed painfully over his shoulder blades. 

"Charity?" Javert's voice rose in outrage, but he made quick work of removing the cuffs. He then stepped up to the front door, lifted his hand as if to knock, hesitated and glanced back at the mayor who was carefully making it to his feet. "Monsieur," he said, shaking his head and pressing the fist to his own chest, "I fear I must demand a proper explanation for this."

"And you will have one, Javert," Madeleine promised with a wince, "although preferably not here. Could we go inside somewhere?"

Javert swept the lantern over the remains of the porch, then crouched and lifted a twig up for closer perusal. "Beech?"

"Apparently." Madeleine shuffled his foot in the tangle of branches. "I cannot actually change the nature of once-living things, only in some little way affect the age of them... occasionally."

Javert's hum was neither wholly agreement nor disagreement. He pinched a leaf from the branch, put it in his pocket, and rose. "Does Monsieur need assistance? Or some support?" He held out his own walking stick, the heavy handle first.

"No, no, thank you." Madeleine ducked his head, hiding both hands behind his back and taking a few steps backwards. It was only bad luck that he misstepped, stumbling slightly and stressing his already battered knee. He could not quench the hiss of pain at that movement.

With a low sound of annoyance, the inspector stuck his cane inside his coat, and took hold of Madeleine's left arm. "Please, Monsieur le maire, lean on me." There was more than a little acid in his tone, but his grip was gentle and steady. "We cannot have our mayor breaking bones over a petty drunkard and his brood. If I had know this would be the outcome of fining them..." He groaned, sudden realization hitting him. "Oh no, no... Monsieur. This is what – for each and every fine?"

The mayor chose not to reply, although he allowed himself to lean on Javert as they walked carefully through the biting cold. 

They had not gone far when Madeleine felt himself begin to shiver. His hat, he realized, lay lost somewhere among the branches, and the power of the words that had kept him warm earlier had dispersed when he had cast the hasty spell. It also felt as though he had managed to rip loose the shoulder of his coat; a chill was creeping in beneath the wool and his bruises complained.

"We are almost at my home, Monsieur," Javert said. The lantern at his hip only illuminated a narrow patch of street ahead of them, bouncing with his steps so that the shadows danced before them, but Javert never hesitated. Long strides ate up the distance. Although Madeleine could easily match the pace, he thought in silence that he would be hard-pressed to outrun it, should the need ever arise.

They stopped before a modest row of houses, and Javert gestured up the stairs. 

Walking carefully, for they seemed not much more stable than the low roof which he had crashed through, Madeleine walked up to the second floor. There he waited until the inspector flipped the simple latch and let him inside.

"You do not have a very strong lock on your door, Inspector," he dared to point out.

"There is nothing to steal," Javert said. "I keep my valuables at the station."

 _Or in your grasp_ , Madeleine thought, eyeing the old cane with no little suspicion. 

Javert offered him a seat at the table, then turned to build the fire. The chill had set fully into Madeleine’s bones now, and in the enclosed dampness he began to shiver. When the fire sparked to life, he reached out a hand towards it – only to guiltily freeze in the middle of the movement, when Javert turned stern eyes at him.

Madeleine drew his hand back and smiled until his face hurt, trying to disguise the trembling in his limbs and the fear in his heart: this was not the prison, Javert would not do him harm tonight. Still, he could not help a flinch as the cane clattered against the wall. 

Then, a warm weight settled upon his shoulders.

"In – Javert?"

The inspector stood there in his shirtsleeves, a crooked smile upon his face. "You are shivering, Monsieur, and it will take some time for the warmth to spread. We can not have a discussion if you are too cold. There, just pull it on properly."

"I cannot... It won't fit."

Waving him off, Javert took out a kettle. "It will fit, Monsieur," he assured Madeleine with a curious softness in his voice. "Please."

Doubtful, but curious, Madeleine stood up and put his arm into first one, then the second sleeve, pulling the storm-gray coat on top of his own. To his great surprise, it fit snugly without any bunching at all. When he closed the second coat around himself, Madeleine immediately felt warmer; the recollection of a lazy summer day from his youth arose within his mind. A moment’s rest from hard work, stretching out in the sunshine and knowing only peace and flower-scented winds. 

Madeleine stroked the unassuming fabric with reverent fingers. "You have more secrets than one would think for such a straightforward man, Inspector."

"And you, Monsieur le maire, have more nightly errands than are good for your health." Javert slapped down a pair of mugs on the table, took out two candles and lit them in the fire, before seating himself opposite Madeleine. "The coat – it warms you?"

Madeleine nodded, and Javert hummed appreciatively. "Good. That eases matters a great deal... Now then, Monsieur. You have unlawfully entered several homesteads in Montreuil, have you not?"

Again, Madeleine nodded, and Javert rubbed his brow. "I _am_ an Inspector of the police," he muttered. "There are names for men who do those things, and not one of them begins or ends with le maire."

"I have my reasons for acting as I do, and keeping it a secret," Madeleine retorted, "and the one you just alluded to is one of them. Tell me, Inspector, was your life not a little easier before you knew how the poorest of the poor could afford your fines? I eased their lives, but did not trouble yours."

"They are not my fines! They are lawful, proper, and I am merely the tool dispensing them.” He shook his head. “And I did not intend to levy them against you, but against those who have broken the law."

"It will still hurt," Madeleine tried, "for anyone who has walked the abyss of poverty, to suddenly receive such gold and know that they must pass it on to the hands of the state."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they take it as a reward for their illegal way and fall to the same temptation, trusting your charity again. A brief time in prison would cure them of such foolish notions."

"And the starving children they'd leave behind?" Madeleine felt his voice rise, though he tried to tamper his anger, lest he say too much. "What sense does it make to throw a working father or a struggling mother into prison? For these small offenses, for the crimes born of desperation, it cannot –” He slammed his palm onto the table, causing the candles to shudder. “There are children involved when I choose to interfere directly; innocents, with hopes for the future. Whatever means their parents have attempted to earn some coin, is it right to punish them for them as well?"

"Monsieur le maire..."

"No, Javert. I was happy to keep my actions out of your sight so that we both might have our peace. Neither do I wish to see the people of this town caught in a trap of gratitude to myself. The accident with the roof was unfortunate, but I cannot refrain from doing what I know to be right!"

The kettle whistled before Javert could answer; from his half-vocalized grumbling, that might have been for the best. While he prepared a drink for them, the smell of herbs rising with the steam, Madeleine swallowed further words – too bitter, they were, and if he let them out they might reveal too much.

"Monsieur Madeleine." Javert put the mug before him and sat down, stretching out his long legs and leaning back in his chair. “You do not leave me time to answer and, truthfully, I can give you no answer to your dilemma, but that which comes from the law – and you know it, already. It is a law we are a _both_ bound to follow, I might remind you. But this you call charity, this ‘secret’ of yours...”

Javert rolled his eyes, a gesture of such unfettered contempt for all that Madeleine had said, that it struck him almost stronger than the words. He realized that he had never seen the inspector so unbuttoned, in more ways than the literal: the wry smile, the ease with which he served the mayor this simple nettle tea, even the offer of his coat... 

Toasting him with his cup, Javert sipped his drink before deliberately setting the cup on the table and leaning forward on his elbows. "Pardon, Monsieur, but do you actually believe me to be a fool?" he asked, his light tone belying the words. "Someone has made certain that criminal families always have the money to pay their fines, when they were obviously destitute only days before. Who knows which families these are, and has pockets deep enough to finance this endeavour? You, Monsieur le maire. The poor folk all profess ignorance to the source of their new-found wealth, unless they credit the good Lord. It was only reasonable to assume, then, that you had _sent out a discreet young man_ to deliver the alms. When I noticed your ability –" Javert waved off Madeleine's protest. "Come now, Monsieur, no gardener can produce fresh greens in November. Especially not strawberries."

Madeleine squinted at Javert. "Strawb – Inspector, have you been spying on me?"

With a shrug, Javert replied, "I am a policeman. Observing is what I do. And early on, I wondered if you were... Well, no use to linger on my mistaken assumptions; it was merely a cart which led me wrong. Anyway, when I realized the truth of your green fingers, I thought I knew the reason for your secrecy. It was not long ago that men like yourself were drafted into the army for life, or made to serve aboard the great ships."

"Not an occupation that would suit me," Madeleine said.

Javert nodded in agreement. "I thought as much. A new name, a new town, no registry having notes of your gifts. An unknown man who rises to the stature of a mayor with nothing but his bare hands to help him? Hah, that is not how the world works! I could not fit it together at first, and I admit that the incongruities vexed me. But your gifts... it all fits together, finally.”

”Fit what?”

“You, monsieur. Gardener and gentleman, who reads fine books and speaks to beggars and nightfolk alike. All those odd notions of charity, the lack of information about your past, the way you treat yourself to so little of the riches your own skills can bring... Hiding is a habit that is hard to break, is it not, Monsieur le maire?”

"And will you report me now, Inspector?"

That made Javert hesitate for a moment, and his gaze swept over Madeleine's form, lingering for a moment at his collar and sleeves. 

Becoming aware once more of Javert's gray coat fitting so unnaturally well over his own, Madeleine fidgeted and tugged at the fabric. Far from being disturbed by his movements, they seemed actually to ease Javert's frown; his eyes focused on nothing for a long while and Madeleine waited, tense and wondering if the cudgel was hanging over him again. At long last, he was granted a slow but definite nod. The tension in Madeleine's shoulders uncoiled and he became again aware of the mild warmth permeating Javert’s coat.

Javert spoke: "Monsieur le maire, you are – despite your questionable methods of charity - an honest man.” His eyes drifted again over the sleeves and stopped at the collar, and a tiny smile escaped him. “Your work as a mayor, at the factory, is beyond reproach. You do not deal in fire or in storm, nothing the registrars must know. There is no draft at the moment. The way the laws were rewritten... it would not be easy to reinstate. And you are, pardon my candor; you are no longer a young man."

Madeleine brushed a hand over his graying hair. "Then you will keep my secret, Javert?"

"It is not a crime, as the laws are written," Javert said, his face growing sterner again. "If it were a crime –"

"–I would already find myself charged. I understand."

"Then please, Monsieur le maire..." In speaking those words, Javert gave him a wry look, before he straightened up and fixed his cuffs, slipping without a word back into the role of the Inspector again. "Do not test my patience with more housebreakings. Letters are fine things, if you must insist on circumventing the proper flow of justice."

"I'll see what I can do," Madeleine promised and took off the coat, the room having warmed enough that he no longer needed it. "Thank you. Inspector."

They shared their drinks in silence and when Madeleine stood to leave, he was escorted to the door by his Inspector of Police again. But he did not forget the man he had seen, hidden beneath the heavy coat.

And so it came that, Inspector Javert, who did not have an easy time to make friends became the occasional conversation partner of Monsieur Madeleine – who, truth to be told, did not himself find friendship much easier to cultivate. 

To call what was between them friendship was, perhaps, an exaggeration. But they would come upon each other during their walks, in the fading evening light or during the depths of night when only policemen, thieves, and the occasional mayor was awake in town. If neither had a pressing engagement, they might fall into step together, and they would converse. 

Javert reported on the matters of the town, and Madeleine in turn offered comments and questions. He praised the hard work of the police, spoke of new developments at the factory, and kindly, but firmly, reminded Javert that there was a greater law above that dealt by magistrates. Javert, in turn, would nag the mayor to be careful with his person and gently mock his insistence that Javert attend Mass more often, when the entire town knew that the priest and Madeleine regularly came to harsh words regarding the irredeemable nature of the other folk. The mayor would dither and hesitate, then admit that even if he did not agree completely with the Father, there were still many good things to hear during his sermons. 

And for two men who did not know how to have friends, they came rather close to friendship.

* * *

"I will not hear another word!" Javert pushed the woman away, closing his ears to her pitiful sobs. "You have harmed a proper man, a taxpayer and a member of the electorate! That you now think your whining and begging will have any influence on _me_!" There escaped from him a noise of deepest revulsion, and his gloves creaked with the strain as he bunched his fists. Shaking his head, Javert turned from the crouched form. "A while in jail will do you good, to teach you your place."

"That will not be necessary." 

Javert turned to the door, as did the two gendarmes assigned to assist him. Only Fantine continued to cling to his boots, as if she wished to wash away his anger with her tears.

"Monsieur le maire." Javert gave a careful nod. "You need not concern –"

The mayor lifted his hand, demanding silence, and walked slowly to Fantine's side. He knelt next to her and asked in a gentle voice for her story.

"Mon – Monsieur le maire." Tears had carved deep tracks in the paint caking her face, and Madeleine offered her a handkerchief.

"Speak, my child, and you will be heard."

It seemed to Javert as if his teeth would crack from the pressure, but whenever he attempted to protest, the mayor silenced him with a stern look. 

"I did you such wrong?" the mayor asked as Fantine finished her tale, true anguish in his voice. 

Whatever had restrained Javert snapped like an over-tensed line, all the weight it had held back bursting forth at once. "Monsieur Madeleine! This is an outrage, and an insult to proper order. She is nothing but a whore! Your compassion goes too far – the violence she has done, the laws she has broken; this is not a matter to be settled with a fine. And that child she speaks of, we don’t even know that it exists!"

"My Cosette is real!" Fantine cried. "Please, Inspector, please..." 

"Liar!" Javert cried, his cane flying from its corner to land in his hand at the command of his fury alone. "Liar and criminal. You have hurt the gentleman, now you wish to deceive the mayor, but you will not deceive me. Monsieur, do you not see how she lies? This kind of woman always lies, manipulating you with her tears, confusing you with her tales! She is violent and malicious, and would no more know the truth than a devil-born can learn Scripture!" He snarled, more like an animal than a man in that moment, and before Madeleine could stop him, grabbed the unfortunate woman and wrenched her to her feet. 

"I should beat the truth out of you," Javert said, and again, the cane seemed to respond to his words, humming in the air. "Then we would see how things truly stand."

"We already do, Javert." There was no anger nor upset in the mayor's voice, only steely resolve, and when his hand closed on Javert's wrist it was with the uncompromising strength of the righteous. "Let her go."

"Monsieur le maire!"

"Let her go," the mayor said and squeezed even harder, his voice falling to a whisper, "before I must order your own men to remove you."

Confused, betrayed in the depths of his heart, Javert released Fantine. She collapsed against the mayor.

"Why would you – such a woman –"

"I have done her wrong," the mayor said and gathered her thin form into his embrace, "and as far as it is in my power, I will set it right. If you choose not to see this, it is not my concern."

Javert shook his head, lips twisting in a sneer. "No," he whispered, "no, that is not right. That is not just..."

"Let it go, Javert."

"Stick."

Where once this word had made him tremble and crawl like a beast, Madeleine now stood straight as a tree in the face of his old fear. He gathered Fantine close to his chest, fixed Javert's burning gaze with his own stern eyes; the moment he saw the other man's lips move, he whirled around, bracing himself against the memory of pain – but protecting his fragile charge without a moment’s hesitation.

"Beat!”

The swish of a cudgel through the air, the first burning line of pain crossing his back. Jean Valjean hissed and tried to steady himself. He tensed in expectation, waiting for the next stroke – but he was no longer helpless and petrified beneath the pain, instead choosing to bear it himself rather than to let it touch his charge.

And there was the second stroke, driving a gasp from him, and then he heard the stick smack into flesh not his own. Fantine was still safe in his grip, and, feeling no further pain on his back, Valjean dared glance back.

There stood Javert, pale-faced and trembling, the stick moving like a live eel in his hand. He opened his mouth once, gaze falling on Fantine's still form, and Valjean clutched her tighter. 

"Monsieur..." Lowering his hand, Javert took a step backwards, and the expression on his face was utterly wretched. "Madeleine. Madeleine."

"Go, Javert," Valjean dared to order, and the two gendarmes who had stared at the scene in confusion took hesitant steps closer. "Leave, at once."

Javert turned on his heel and walked out into the night. 

Inside the room, the mayor's concern turned wholly to Fantine's plight. He brusquely ordered one of the men to run ahead to the hospice so that they might prepare a bed for her. He would wrap her in a blanket taken from a cell and carry her thin body to the care of the nuns himself, sitting up beside her until the dawn came and her feverish eyes opened again. Then, he would promise to bring her Cosette, and their tears would fall together, two ravaged souls finding kinship in this act of gentleness.

But in the night, where Javert walked among the cold winds, there was no comfort and no gentleness; nothing but dark thoughts and darker suspicions now given free reign.

The stick had beaten. Not the woman, but the mayor. 

The mayor with the uncommonly strong back. The mayor who mingled freely with prostitutes and thieves. He entered homes (but he left gold) and flaunted rules (but he was a good man) and now... now, he had proven himself to be...

"He isn't an innocent man," Javert said, staring down a the stick. He had not wished to... How had he dared, with the mayor between himself and the slut... "You did not beat me," he said, and the wind chilled him to the bone for the first time in many years.

He shuddered and dropped his cane, pressing his fists against his eyes. "He isn't an innocent man." The cold was frightful, but it could not calm the raging of his heart, and finally, with heavy limbs, he bent to retrieve his cane.

He had a letter to write.

Though Javert pulled the coat tighter around himself, and he huddled inside his collar, the cold of the night found him; but his heart was heavy and his mind tired, and never stopped to consider why the wintry winds would admonish him tonight for the first time in many, many years.


	4. The Garden and the Rebels

When Gavroche had learned that he must go to the end of the rue Plumet, he had known he was in for a challenge indeed. The wild roses and brambles grew so high here that they had completely swallowed the garden. Only Marius' word assured him that there was even a house hidden beneath all of that. 

He climbed over thickly twined branches with foot-long thorns sticking out, their shorter but still painful cousins snagging and tearing at his clothes. He walked on calloused, but still bare, feet over the carpet of stinging nettles and knee-high thistles; he had a debt to repay, and never would it be said that Gavroche was ungrateful to one who’d saved his life.

Pressing ever onward, he walked deep into the mess of thorns, until the brambles formed an impassable wall before him. 

Only then did he wet his lips and whistle softly, once – a breath, a pause – and then whistled once more. A simple tune, the song of the little lark, and slowly the brambles shook and groaned around him. A giggle escaped Gavroche and he whistled again, louder; but too hastily this time. The tune was wrong, and at once he felt the thistles whip at his legs while the branches closed tight before his eyes.

"Oops, pardon me!" he whispered, then focused on finding the correct tune again. 

Slowly, the weeds calmed and the road ahead of him opened. Whistling, always whistling the simple tune of the lark, Gavroche walked in among the brambles and their heavy silence, the greenery swallowing him until only the distant song of a lost lark could be heard from the street. 

Dreamy calm fell again over the end of the rue Plumet, deep silence in the summer night. So it was and so it had been for many years, ever since silvery words had hidden away a garden with three wounded flowers from the world. A stillness and a peace, a sanctuary beneath the thorny walls, where childish laughter could grow and tired fugitives rest from the tigers of the world.

One of the thorny limbs trembled.

A nightingale found its nest disturbed and sang out a protest, before flying to the roof of a nearby house, looking down at the unruly hedge with the simple curiosity of an animal. 

The entire wall of thorns was shaking and dissolving, the unnaturally large thorns shrinking down and melting into the ground, the thistles withering while the fiery nettles yellowed and died, leaving only fresh shoots and shy grass so long cowering in their shadows.

Rue Plumet shook and trembled. The paving stones heaved and groaned as the masses of greenery sank into the earth. In the end, all that was left was a modest cottage hung with honeysuckle and vine, and a garden with tiny flowers of blue and white scattered around the edges. 

Before the house stood one slim tree. Almost silver shone its bark beneath the moon, and the rich crown of heart-shaped leaves whispered and sang in the nightly wind.

When a strong-shouldered man and a young girl in a heavy, flowing dress exited the cottage the tree shivered anew. With the sound of a hundred tiny bells, it bent its crown – and when it straightened up, it revealed a woman in a leaf-colored dress standing on the lawn. Her hair was still shorn short; her face was unlined and peaceful.

From inside the house, a boy watched the events with wide eyes, his mouth gaping wider and wider at each secret revealed.

"Fantine," said Jean Valjean; two swift steps and he was before her, taking her pale hands in his own and squeezing them gently. "Did you hear our decision?"

"I heard it," she replied and she smiled like the spring breaking through the last of winter. "I heard it, and I believe it is the right choice. Come here, my dear!" 

Cosette sprang into her arms, laughter and tears mingling on their faces when she embraced her mother. Valjean stepped back, leaving them alone to share the secrets of mother and daughter.

"Do you approve of him?" Cosette asked, breathless and nervous – although the blush of love still glowed on her cheeks. 

"You approve," Fantine said, "and that is enough for me. Marry him, my dear, marry him and grow old with your love." Then she bent close and spoke even more softly – and since her voice was the whisper of wind through leaves, the words spoken in the bending, creaking, half-heard language of the woods, that was softly indeed. "And I have seen him brave the thorns and become love's fool for one kiss from you; yes, my dearest, I do approve." Cosette heard this all with her heart, and so she knew every word and cherished them all, even though she blushed at the last.

"I will need every bit of help the good Bishop's gift can give me," Valjean said as he came closer, the old Bible grasped in his hand, once again having attained its proper size. Gavroche stumbled, wide-eyed and more affected than he'd admit, at his side. "Will you manage on your own, Fantine?"

She nodded and patted the linden tree behind her. "Our roots have grown deep in these years gone past. Perhaps I will need to sleep for a month or two, but have no fear. I shall endure this too."

Then Valjean nodded and pressed his lips to her hand, tasting a hint of honey and growing things from her skin. 

Fantine touched his brow with her other hand and spoke a blessing on him. Then, eyes misting, she gave Cosette a final embrace before she sank back into the wood which had harbored her soul since the cough stole her last breath in Montreuil.

Her daughter touched the wood, softly, and then she drew herself up. "Father." She did not look at Valjean, and so missed the gleam in his eyes as he saw her so grown, so strong. "Let us go... and bring my Marius home."

"Let us go," Valjean agreed. He gripped Gavroche's hand in his left while Cosette stepped around, taking the boy’s dirty little hand in her dainty one. 

With his free hand, Valjean opened the silver Bible, once again its proper size, and read from it: "Let us go on together, and I will accompany thee in thy journey." 

There was a whisper in the air, like a hundred wings beating, and then the garden at Rue Plumet lay empty and silent, the spirits gone to rest and the magic flown away; but beneath the pavement there was a rumble and a rushing, like a great stream tumbling to the east. If one had flown like a cloud over Paris and watched it that night, one might have seen the most rickety houses shake for a moment, as if passed over by a great wave; the gardens in the districts of Montparnasse and the lawns before the Salpêtrière buckled and heaved, some of the larger bushes having disappeared when morning came, and dozens of tiny white flowers and nettle shoots left in their place.

* * *

When an elderly man and a boy, downy-cheeked and still too young to shave, stood before the barricade and asked to join them, Combeferre became truly worried. Not that the old and the young joined them – he could join Enjolras in the satisfaction that their message reached all – but because he feared that if two deserters in uniform could come this far, it must mean that no others had appeared because there were no others. When he asked the boy about it, he only squeaked something incomprehensible and became suddenly very busy fiddling with his carbine. The old man took Combeferre aside instead, and listened to his concerns.

"You are unfortunately right," he agreed. "We came here because we have a most pressing need to join you... but the message has not spread far. I'm sorry." He squeezed Combeferre's shoulder, and the revolutionary found himself replying to the comforting smile. 

"The night is still young," Combeferre said. "We fight on."

The old soldier looked over to the corner, where three bodies lay stacked on each other. "To what cost?"

"Any cost," Combeferre replied without hesitation. "There is nothing we would not pay for a free republic. The memory of our friends demands it as well."

"Do they?" A net of wrinkles tightened his face, but then he nodded and seemed suddenly weary. "Perhaps they do, perhaps they do and I have grown too old to hear them. I hope only that the prize of freedom will not be all your lives."

"And your life?"

To that, the old soldier laughed, low and without mirth. "I? Am old. My life, for yours, for the freedom of youth – that would indeed be a fair trade." And his gaze lingered upon the boy, who was now speaking to Marius.

They remained silent for a moment, before the soldier nudged Combeferre’s shoulder again. "Tell me one thing, my good man," he began. "Your leader spoke of a spy he had caught?"

"Yes, monsieur. A spy for the police, come to sow discord and false information among us."

"Might I perhaps see him, speak to him? I have met some police spies before," he hurried to explain at Combeferre's raised eyebrow. "It's not impossible that I know his true name and can figure out his mission."

"I'm sorry, monsieur," Combeferre said, shaking his head. "While that might be useful, we had to gag him. He has some Art, you see. When Gavroche revealed his name, he cried out a word and from nowhere, a walking stick attacked us! It was a nasty business, because the old man was fighting too, and then that cane flew at everyone nearby! Shod with iron and weighted with lead, from the feel of it. Well, it whacked Enjolras a good one, and poor Eponine; she lies dead now, was hit by a bullet when they stormed the barricade. But we didn't recognize her yet, and... Ah, well, it got her on the shoulder before the spell malfunctioned."

"Malfunctioned?"

"I don't know my way around such things, but Prouvaire and Marius both made a grab for it. The thing barely landed a blow on them, then suddenly went mad!"

"Oh?" The old soldier rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "As it happens, I know a trick or two – how did the spell break?"

"It turned upon its master! Caught him a few solid ones over the back, then almost broke his nose before Marius caught the damn thing and it went suddenly still." Combeferre shook his head. "I've never trusted such things; gunpowder may get wet, but at least its fire will not suddenly jump back on you if you are rude to it!"

"I do not believe that was about politeness. Tell me, this man: wearing a long, gray coat, is he? Looks like he's unlikely to recall a proper smile?"

"Yes! You know of this man?" Combeferre replied with some surprise. 

“Mayhap – describe him to me, please?” 

"Well, he seemed a rather ordinary, if sour fellow. And the coat... A ragged old thing, it is. That's why Joly thought we should take it off him. See, our Joly has studied some magics, though,” he confessed in a hushed whisper, “it doesn't do him much good. The more he learns about the ladies in the water and the witches of the road, the more anxious he becomes that he will insult some power or draw a curse upon himself. He jangles when he walks these days, from all the protective amulets he wears!"

The soldier laughed. "The beginning of knowledge can be almost worse than none at all."

"True enough. But he thought there was something strange about the coat, and who am I to protest? I’ve never even seen one of the little folk.”

“No?” The soldier closed his eyes let his hand linger upon his knapsack. “I guess the great cities are worlds of their own, where old things matter less and less...”

Enjolras had demanded that his pack be inspected when the man joined their rebellion, so Combeferre knew it to contain only a worn Bible. He did his best to fight down a smile that might too easily be taken as patronizing; plenty of people still attributed amazing powers to words read from the Good Book by the right man, and he would not offend their new volunteer for anything in the world. Instead, he continued his tale. 

“Joly might well have had a point. Despite that coat looking so thin and worn-out, it had no patches at all, and it was quite a struggle to get it off the spy. Joly thought it might be a shadow cloak, which can turn you undetectable in all but the strongest sunlight. For safety’s sake, we took all his tools from him, and tied him with rope and iron to a table and then gagged him; it works against all kinds of witchery, or so they say.”

"Hmm, yes, it does... or so I've heard told. Well, that was all very interesting!" The soldier stood up, dusted off his trousers and gave Combeferre a short bow. "I should see how young Fauchelevent is doing and then take my turn at the watch."

Combeferre bade him farewell and watch him walk over to where Marius and the younger soldier were sitting. They were both staring straight ahead, hands bunched over their knees, and it appeared to him suddenly, that they both looked flustered in strangely similar ways. When the older soldier – what had his name been? – closed in on them, Marius jumped up, tried to pull off a salute and almost stumbled on his own feet; would in fact have fallen all over the soldier if Fauchelevent hadn't caught him.

* * *

The hour had grown late when Valjean walked on careful feet to the dark café. He had no candle, but at a whisper, a soft glow emerged from the depths of his knapsack. As he came up to the table and the bound figure on it, he opened the flap and silvery light spilled out.

"Hello, Javert. It has been some time, hasn't it?"

The figure before him was bound most securely. A length of chain, too short to properly shackle him, had been twined in thick string and put against the soft skin of his throat. Above it was a proper rope, creating a rough collar that continued down his chest, where it was wrapped several times around his upper arms. His hands had been forcefully folded together, rope holding it in place above his belly, and his feet were bound with only a short length of rope between them, around which a final length was spun, tethering him to the table. Valjean let his hand test the rope around Javert's neck, and realized that a part of it continued beneath as well; a quick look confirmed that his neck and feet were held by the same length of rope. A clever contraption indeed.

Before removing the gag, he stared down at Javert for another moment. "Your presence is creating a fine dilemma," he admitted. "It will be far easier to conclude my business with these young men if they do not believe I am a fellow spy..." 

Then Valjean took out his knife and cut away the fabric holding the gag in place, and helped Javert remove the scrunched up handkerchief.

Javert worked his mouth a few times; there was tacky blood beneath his swollen nose and he turned his head to spit it away, before deigning to favor Valjean with even one look. "So you've come to kill me, at last?" he stated, voice almost as neutral as if the years had never been and Javert still stood before the desk, delivering his report to Monsieur le maire. 

Except that back then, Javert had not glared at Madeleine while forming each word with such care, that he sounded almost a parody of himself.

"You are not listening again," Valjean admonished. Rounding the table, Valjean quickly cut the rope tying Javert down, then reached inside his knapsack and took out a handful of seeds. "Come off that table," he ordered, "and please – do not make a fuss, or the boys will hear you."

That earned him a tired glare, but Javert obeyed. "Better keep this between us, you old con?"

The words halted Valjean for a moment and his eyes on Javert were almost pitying. "Yes," he finally said, "far better."

The seeds he spread on the table, and he then cut a piece of Javert's shirt away, laying it approximately where his torso had rested. Then Valjean took out the shining book, opened a page and read from it: "He found something like a wild vine, and gathered of it wild gourds of the field, and filled his mantle..." As he spoke, the seeds sprouted, first into tiny vines that wound around the table, then swelling up until a number of rounded gourds filled the table. Valjean let a handful of pages rustle through his fingers and continued reading. "And the little skins of the kids she put about his hands, and covered the bare of his neck." At those words, the scrap of fabric grew into the shape of a shirt; the gourds merged together, the wines winding like rope around the false limbs until, in the low light, to a the mind distracted by other worries, it was easy to see a man tied to the table.

"That," Javert said, "you did not buy at a market stall in Montreuil." He was glaring at the Bible as if it was a living creature, liable to turn on him and bite him any moment.

Valjean chose not to reply. He bent and pulled out the shabby old coat from beneath the table, slung it over his shoulder and took hold of the rope running between Javert's neck and hands. "Come."

Javert followed with small, careful steps, and they walked in silence out to a deserted back alley. 

When Valjean judged that they were far enough that their voices would not carry, he stopped and pushed his captive against the wall. 

"Your stick did not work on these boys," he said.

Javert sneered at him, managing to look surprisingly haughty despite the hemp collar. "The leader is a murderer already; tomorrow, if they live, it will work. As it has always worked on you."

Shrugging, Valjean began cutting away the ropes around his  hands. "As did your coat, unless my memory is playing tricks on me."

His eyes shuttering, Javert looked away. "It is ruined. You – hah, no, I shan't blame you. I should have known better than to lend it to a criminal."

"Really?" Valjean frowned. "It seemed to work fine, if its purpose was to warm even in the coldest nights."

As the last of the ropes fell away, Javert unfolded his fingers. A piece of black iron fell from between his hands, and his knuckles cracked painfully when he stretched the fingers, red marks showing where the rope had been most tightly wound.

"To keep warm, or keep cool..." When Valjean approached again with the blade, Javert favored him with a small smile. "It still fits, no matter what, but that is also all the power you left in it."

"I did nothing to your coat," Valjean protested. 

Javert wetted his lips, then nodded, eyes sliding shut as if to shield him against the admission. "I know. Just as those boys did nothing to my cane. Perhaps..." He sighed, deep and exhausted, and let his head fall back so that his throat was bared above the chain and rope. "Finish it, then."

Valjean hesitated for a moment, watching his old persecutor standing so tired and passive. Then he shook his head and put the knife to the rope at Javert's neck. A finger stroked along the Bible's back, a whispered word, and each length of rope sprung apart, bursting into its very fibers.

Javert's eyes flew open and he stared at Valjean as if he was one of the monsters taken flesh.

"What?"

"I am not your enemy," Valjean said, daring to squeeze Javert's arm. "Here. Take your coat. Then _go_ , go away from here."

"Why would you – you took me here to kill me!"

"That was never my intention."

He had not expected overflowing gratitude from Javert; but neither had he thought to be faced with such a bitter snarl. 

"You should kill me," Javert near growled at him, "you should not let me go. You think I will look away again? Let you go? When all this – I will not fall for your false words again! Thief, impostor, criminal!"

"I don't care," Valjean replied. "I will not have your death on my conscience." 

The fist that clenched in his jacket was not wholly a surprise, but that Javert did no more than grip him there – that was.

"These boys will all die. You will die if you remain."

"We shall have see about that. You, however," and Valjean tapped him over the knuckles with the flat of his knife, "will not survive if you remain. And neither of us will attain our goals if we are overheard. If you are so upset about my escape... I have rooms at Rue de l'Homme-Armé, number five. You may find me there, if that is how it must be."

Then Valjean took out his Bible and opened a page at random. He glanced down at the page, then lifted his eyebrow at Javert, as if challenging him to remain.

With a half-choked curse, Javert turned to go.

"Wait!" Valjean called.

Javert was still half-turning when the gray coat struck him. Throwing Valjean a bewildered look, he grasped the fabric with wordless instinct and carried it in silence away from the alley.

* * *

The night of the June Rebellion would forever be remembered in history as the night when the people's magic rose up for one last stand, barricading the entire city against the National Guard.

It became clear, in the cool hours before dawn, that the people would not rise. With the barricades falling one after the other and reports confirming no more than two thousand rebels, the authorities decided that one final strike would crush them and restore order before the church bells struck noon. Such was the order, and cannons rolled out while the soldiers amassed.

The attacks began and gunpowder smoke rose over the city. In that moment that the legend and the official history forever split in two, never to be reconciled again.

In the records of the National Guard and in all filed reports of the Paris police, there is written of a great earthquake: it shook the capital, brought down a few buildings, and caused great disorder within  the ranks. While the ensuing chaos put an end to the uprising, it also meant that nearly all the rebels escaped unscathed.

So say offical records. And indeed, since that evening, there were multiple reports of a thin crack running down the entire front facade of the Palais des Tuileries, clearly brought there by some gargantuan power of the earth. 

How sounds then the legend? 

The stories told in Paris of the night of the sixth of June are many and confused, but this they all share: When the students sang in their last defiance, when the guns were prepared and the battle seemed decided already... then shook the ground, and the gardens stirred; then walked the oaks and the chestnuts and all the other noble trees; from the cemeteries flowed thorny roses and winding brambles. And arising so glorious and bright from the heaps of wrecked furniture, came silvery walls, shining like the bulwarks of grand Babylon that once was.

In that one night, the legend tells, the city arose to protect its children – all its children. Guns would not work on either side; wooden gun-stocks crumbled and fouled and bullets rusted to dust within the barrels. Paving stones slipped from hands, whether the attempt was made by student or soldier, and they flowed and danced beneath the feet of all attackers. Plunderers who tried to use the chaos found themselves snagged by doorposts and windowsills, the wood twisting and turning around them until they fled shrieking into the night. Soldiers attacking with fire and with steel tramped straight through the street, landing in the swamps of old that had risen through time for this one night.

Through it all, the students sang, and the people heard their song and they replied.

Come, come and fight – such was the call.

Not yet, not yet – such was the reply.

But they had heard each other, the people, and in this night, when magic flowed, the dreams of the future and memories of the bloody past mingled; and so they replied, the young rebels.

Not yet, not yet... but soon, soon.

The rebels crept away then, disappearing into the night and the restless city swallowed them all. Only a whisper remained.

(And of the crack in the Palais des Tuileries, the legends agree with the records that there was truly a long fault above the gate since that night in June. But they mention more... such as how the crack stubbornly resisted all attempts at repair, remaining until decades later when the people's wrath rose. And if one knows who to ask and listens politely to their tale, one will learn that while the flames rose around the old home of kings and oppressors, the crack sprung open and a thousand brambles sprung forth, cracking the stone and welcoming the fire of the Parisians.) 

_Not yet, but soon_ , the people whisper.

* * *

It was the eve of June the seventh. Inspector Javert stood upon the bridge over the Seine and looked down at the flowing waters. 

He had recently finished a report. There had been no one around to hand it to, but he did not consider that a very great problem. It rested on the desk of his superior and he felt assured that sooner or later, it would be read.

Javert had visited his home and put on his good shirt and his proper hat. He thought it important that he looked proper.He did not wish to be buried in the clothes of a spy.

Then he had gone to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, observed it in silence for a long time. After roughly an hour, a carriage had arrived. He had seen Jean Valjean helped up the stairs by his daughter, the girl still dressed in the ragged remains of a soldier's uniform. She had then hurried down the stairs again to assist two pale young men, the trio wavering and stumbling into the house. Javert thought one of them might have been the boy who had stopped his own cane from breaking his fool head. 

He could have entered then, and arrested the man. Valjean had been pale and shivering on the stairs, exhausted from the grand working he had pulled over the city. The boys were useless and the girl, despite her clothing, did not have the look of a fighter.

He should have entered then. But instead, he had torn the page with the scrawled address from his notebook and tossed it away, before turning to the river.

Now, the wind tugging at his coattails, Javert rubbed a stain from his hat and put it carefully on the parapet next to him. He slipped his keys and his handcuffs from his pockets, and put them beside the hat. A gourd seed dropped from his pocket as he did that, and he quashed the instinct to crush it. Let it lie; soon it would not matter.

When he tried to unbutton his coat, the buttons seemed stuck. Javert tried again, pulling at the stubborn fabric.

"No?" he grumbled, feeling the button slide through his finger as if it had been coated with oil. "As you wish then." 

It felt good, in a way, to smooth the familiar fabric out and arrange the collar as he had done for so many, many years. It was a familiar comfort that Javert had carried with him, through hardships and triumphs, and if he was to be buried in any coat... yes. Although Javert had accepted the fact that he had finally and utterly lost whatever had made the capricious Winds gift his younger self with these tools, far too fine for a rude brat, he had still mourned their loss. The cane was gone, swallowed by the slums of St. Michel. The coat, at least, he might keep and allow himself to believe, it was because the old rag did not wish to abandon him so close to the end.

And so Javert stepped up to the parapet, looked down at the river and let himself fall into the air.

Wind rushed around him, as it had all his adult life; his coattails whipped back and forth, and Javert thought he felt grasping hands tear at his face and body. The river approached too slowly, and he tumbled once, then once again through the air. Far above Javert glimpsed a shape against the darkening sky, imagined that a hand reached for him. He stretched out his own arm, dreaming of finding, grasping, holding – 

The water closed around his feet, lapped at the ends of his coat, and it was at once as if gravity had found him again: the air grew thin and his body heavy, and Javert was physically yanked down into the current, cool pressure enveloping him, dirty river water piercing the cocoon of timeless wind he had fallen through. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth fell open, and the terror of choking wrung him apart.

Then strong hands closed upon his collar and Javert found himself slowly, painfully dragged up to the air.

"Draw me out of the mire," he heard as his head broke the surface. "That I may not stick fast." A groan, a yank, and his shoulders were freed. "Deliver me from them that hate me, and _out_ of the deep waters!"

On the last word, Valjean pulled him wholly free of the river's grasp. Javert clung to him, coughing and spitting, feeling as if there was more water pouring out of him than his body could possibly contain. The arm around his waist was steady like an old branch, and yet he swayed in that grip, feeling more lost than ever been.

Valjean was still reciting, he realized, the words forced out above Javert's head as if he was speaking with a millstone weighing down his chest. "Let not the tempest of water drown me, nor the deep swallow me up." The voice faltered for a moment, Valjean gasping for air. In that moment, Javert felt his feet sink down again, the river pulling him down to his ankles before the line of scripture made the treacherous surface beneath them firm again. "Let not the pit," again, that pained, laborious breath, "shut her mouth upon me."

He might have wished to die, Javert, but his death was meant to spare this man. For them to both sink into the river's embrace was senseless beyond measure. And so he dared one step – felt the river's surface hold – then another, dragging along Valjean who kept speaking them safe upon the rolling, tumbling water.

The embankment rose high before him. With every step he took, Javert felt his boots sink further into the wetness before Valjean's tortured voice could speak him safe, and he knew there was no strength left in him to effect this last miracle. 

Please, he thought, and finally, his hand scrabbling uselessly against the stone-clad edge rising too high above him, he spoke it. "Help!" If Valjean was holding him up, by now Javert was holding him in turn, and he could feel his strength fading. "Please! Someone... help him." He closed his eyes, and he felt a burning pain within them. "Is there nobody here? This good man – help him!"

Then a stick was held down to him; the rough iron grip familiar, the scuffed and work-worn grain one he knew even in these circumstances. Javert reached out, grasped the handle in his hand, trusting it with an instinct born of years. 

A yank, his fist clenching tighter, knowing he must not let go, feeling a swell of air from behind, almost pushing him up. Then they were dragged up by arms strong enough to tear off roofs or send ships halfway around the world – and safely back home again, if they were so inclined.

Javert collapsed into a sodden heap on the blessedly solid ground, while Valjean fell flat on his face beside him.

“You had only to ask, you rude brat,” a familiar voice sniffed above him. “And to go losing my gift like that – I expect better from you in the future.”

He managed to turn around and stared up. Gentlemen, he had seen as a child...

“Don’t be so hard on him, now,” the other replied, and when he used his own elegant cane to poke Javert’s coat, Javert felt all the water evaporate off him, until the only wetness left was that which he kept coughing up.

...gentlemen, the boy had seen. Endless, towering beings larger than angels, with eyes like storms and smiles like restless gales; that was what the man saw. Yet in them, he recognized the easily bored foreigners who had turned Toulon’s children into pieces in their own silly game, and he knew them once more for what they were.

“Thank you,” Javert managed, despite his hoarse throat and shaken mind. “Thank – for everything.”

“Well,” the second gentleman said and winked, “you still haven’t settled our little bet.”

He coughed at that, and it would have been a laugh in a different circumstance. “Impossible,” Javert replied, gesturing to their gigantic shapes, “impossible. You are... great, beyond favours and judgements. Equals. So far above us... I am astonished you even see us.”

“Hmm, prettily said.”

“Yes, he has grown more polite, hasn’t he?” 

Javert’s hand fell down, landing atop Valjean’s and without his mind’s rationality having any say in the matter, it closed around the calloused fingers. “Did you call him?”

“Would we?” The first gentleman brushed nails (grand like roaring storms and windswept seas; small enough that they gleamed like polished jewels before Javert’s tired eyes) against his rain-colored coat. “Don’t overvalue yourself, brat.”

“His daughter brought your stick home with them,” the second said, giving a teasing nudge to his companion, and his smile was lightning storms and windmills cutting through the air. “Seems it has grown fond of you; strange, for it is usually a prickly thing.”

“Like to like and all that. Are we done now?”

“Thank you,” Javert had time to call, though only the nightly winds were there to carry his words away.

He looked at the starlit sky, wondered if his coat would keep him warm through the winter again. He thought it might. Glancing at Valjean’s unconscious face, knowing he would not arrest him, and he felt something else beside, however confused and hesitant it was.

In a world where the winds walked like men and the river carried two fools on the behest of a few small words – in such a world, was not this impossibility perhaps possible after all?

And so Javert closed his eyes and fell into an exhausted slumber next to the man he had hunted for so many long, lonely years. And with the summer breeze their blanket and hands touching in a silent promise for the future, two men dreamt of a time when they might, perhaps, call each other friend. 

/End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruberoidz created several stunning pieces of artwork for this fic! Belonging to this chapter:
> 
> [Tree-spirit Fantine and Cosette](http://ruberoidz.tumblr.com/post/54085843655/the-two-winds-and-the-silver-bible-this-summer) in the garden at rue Plumet.
> 
> [Javert and Valjean with their items of magic](http://ruberoidz.tumblr.com/post/54185573352/the-two-winds-and-the-silver-bible-3-if-you)
> 
> And more generally  
> [The four winds](http://ruberoidz.tumblr.com/post/60077414683/the-winds-actually) in all their glory.

**Author's Note:**

> This story does not match any one particular fairy tale, but draws inspiration from a whole host of folk tales and stories I recall from my childhood. Particular inspiration was the Norwegian story _Gutten som gikk til nordavinden og krevde igjen melet_ / _[The Boy and the North Wind](http://www.mikelockett.com/stories.php?action=view&id=118)_ , from where Javert's stick comes. A (far more loosely) inspired image was Fantine and the tree, from Astrid Lindgren's sad and beautiful story _Spelar min lind, sjunger min näktergal_ / _My Nightingale is Singing_.
> 
> There is actually a Silver Bible, the _[Codex Argenteus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Argenteus)_ ; a 6th century Gothic collection of the Evangeliums. Though it has it's name due to the silver ink, not the cover. It is also not, as far as I am aware, magic.
> 
> The Bible quotes were picked from an online edition of the _The Douay–Rheims Bible_ , 1899 American edition.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [With Nightingales in Your Hair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/900956) by [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M)




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